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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28529661">Deliver His Soul From Hell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky'>MovesLikeBucky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Human, Blow Jobs, Cowboys &amp; Cowgirls, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Down and dirty in the barn y'all, Flogging, Got some spicy art in here too so be aware, M/M, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Sub Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:27:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28529661</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They steal away, in these stolen moments in the night.  Just the two of them, away from the camp and the other men.  They can do what they want, give in to their urges.  No witnesses except a few unfortunate horses.</p>
<p>Crowley likes Aziraphale’s hands.  They’re coarse and rough from life on the range, worker’s hands.  They’re dry and cracked and scratch at his skin when Aziraphale touches him, but the honey is still sweet despite the bee sting.  He likes giving Aziraphale control, letting him use him.  Likes letting Aziraphale think he’s asleep after; that he doesn’t hear the whispered confessions.  No use for the two of them, not in a life like this.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>12 Days of Blasphemy 2020, Can't no preacher man save my soul, Historical AUmens, Top Aziraphale Recs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Deliver His Soul From Hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/gifts">sosobriquet</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Day 10 of Blasphemy for the prompt: “Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.” (Proverbs 23:14)</p>
<p>This one is a gift from me and Callus_Ran to our dear friend Sosobriquet! </p>
<p>&lt;3 I know this year has been rough on you, dear, but things will look up and they'll get better!  You are so very very important to me, and I love you very much &lt;3 - Bucky</p>
<p>all the gay cowboys for jessi, from cawwus with luv - Ran</p>
<p>We love you Jessi! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And this’ll teach you,” Aziraphale sneers in Crowley’s ear as he tightens the rope around his wrists, “To go sneakin’ around barns after dark, watching what you ain’t supposed to.”  Aziraphale bites Crowley’s shoulder, hard and fast with no warning, making him yelp and strain at the rope binding him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll sneak around whatever barns I want to, angel,” Crowley says as he rolls his hips, as he kicks at the dirt covered boards.  “You think this is gonna stop me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I have ways of dealin’ with rapscallions like you,'' Aziraphale growls low in his ear, voice dropping to a whisper, “What do we say? If it gets too much?’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley pulls at the rope wound around his wrists, held fast by a nail in the old wood beams.  Aziraphale is pressed into him, closer than sin.  Doesn’t matter how thick his jeans are, Crowley can feel him well enough, hard and ready for him in his Levi’s.  Aziraphale’s fingers hook through the loops in Crowley’s jeans, his grip is tight on Crowley’s scrawny hips.  It sends a thrill through him like nothin’ else, this game of theirs.  Burns hotter than any whiskey, stings like bull nettle; keeps him on his toes and coming back for more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Amarillo.  Fuckin’ hell, get on with it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Impatient and a smart mouth, that’s fine, I’ll give you somethin’ to smart off about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All at once Aziraphale’s steady weight is gone and Crowley is left hanging by his wrists.  The nail is up just a bit too high and he has to stand on the tips of his toes to keep from straining.  But the anticipation is half of the fun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They steal away, in these stolen moments in the night.  Just the two of them, away from the camp and the other men.  They can do what they want, give in to their urges.  No witnesses except a few unfortunate horses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley likes Aziraphale’s hands.  They’re coarse and rough from life on the range, worker’s hands.  They’re dry and cracked and scratch at his skin when Aziraphale touches him, but the honey is still sweet despite the bee sting.  He likes giving Aziraphale control, letting him use him.  Likes letting Aziraphale think he’s asleep after; that he doesn’t hear the whispered confessions.  No use for the two of them, not in a life like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a swishing sound in the air, quiet, from the other end of the barn.  Crowley feels his cock fill in anticipation.  The swishing gains a rhythm.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Swish, swish, tap.  Swish, swish, tap.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I reckon this will do nicely.”  There’s a loud crack of leather hitting wood and Crowley barely manages to strangle a moan.  “We’ll see how the lashes treat you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale walks back over slowly, boots clicking against the wood, muffled lightly by hay.  He’s foregone his spurs for the night, and Crowley almost misses the jingle of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now then, are you gonna repent, apologize for your misdeeds?”  It’s a last question, a last chance for Crowley to back out.  But Aziraphale’s breath is hot on his neck, facial hair coarse against Crowley’s skin; his thumbs are skirting the edge of Crowley’s jeans, and Crowley has never had a single doubt in his mind about his answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do your worst, cowboy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale reaches around and flicks open the first button on Crowley’s jeans, “Was hopin’ you’d say that.”  He works the others open slow like molasses; like he’s savoring the gesture, all the while pressing hot open-mouthed kisses to Crowley’s neck.  Aziraphale hooks his thumbs through Crowley’s belt loops and slides his jeans down to his knees.  Those rough and calloused hands cup his ass, rub rough against Crowley’s skin.  He tries and fails to suppress the keening noise that escapes him at the touch.  “How many, d’you reckon.  Five?  Ten?  Never mind that, we’ll see how you take them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley whimpers at the loss of Aziraphale’s touch, but readies himself as he hears it again.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Swish, swish, tap.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  “Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell,” Aziraphale quotes under his breath, as he smacks the implement against his palm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Proverbs? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”  This is how Crowley knows he’s in for something drastic.  Aziraphale only quotes the scripture when he’s feeling a certain sort of way.  When he wants Crowley so loud that it drowns the repression out all the way, that it doesn’t become a sating of an urge, becomes something more.  Something holy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know they use these for the cattle,” Aziraphale says as he traces the smooth leather up the curve of Crowley’s ass.  Crowley’s cock twitches in response, precome already beading at the tip.  “Keep them in line, during the drives.  But you knew that, didn’t you, my dear?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I knew that,” Crowley says, making a show of straining at his bonds, “So what?  You gonna keep me in line, cowboy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I don’t reckon I truly could.  But, with a little patience, and some guidance…” Aziraphale cracks the quirt off to the side, a loud snap that makes Crowley jump “…maybe I might knock a bit of sense into you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a crystalline moment in between them, a hushed stretch of time before the main event.  Crowley often wonders, in this moment, if Aziraphale will lose his nerve.  Will retreat back into that box he likes to keep himself in, pretending he doesn’t want this and doesn’t want Crowley.  “Alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks one last time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So fucking alright,” Crowley says, not even bothering to pretend he’s resisting anymore.  The quirt cracks hard across his backside, hurts like a bitch but in a way Crowley loves.  He’ll take whatever Aziraphale gives him, any way that he will.  Sometimes it’s slow and tender, sometimes hard and rough, and others like this - Aziraphale in control, and Crowley letting go and accepting and knowing that with one word, it all stops.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The quirt smacks hard across his skin at least four more times.  Aziraphale calls him a fair number of names.  Hoodlum, rascal, scoundrel — it should be insulting, but Aziraphale knows Crowley better than that.  Knows he sees himself as a rough and tumble rogue, that he enjoys these words flung at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley loses count of the strikes, revels in the pain.  The burn of the rope on his wrists, the sting where the quirt has left it’s marks.  He doesn’t even notice he’s crying until Aziraphale stops.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a graze of knuckles across his cheek, soft and tender, with just a hint of apology, “Was that good?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley nuzzles against Aziraphale’s hand, like a lazy cat on a worn out porch, searching for the warm spot in the fading light of day, “More than good, angel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even in the dark, with only the moonlight, Crowley doesn’t miss the flush of pink on Aziraphale’s cheeks, just peeking out above his beard.  Crowley has called him that ever since the first time, since that first morning they woke up together in the hay loft.  The morning sun was shining in, catching in Aziraphale’s blond curls, lighting them up like a damned halo.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>You look like an angel</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’d whispered then, unable to stop it even if he had wanted to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The endearment still pulls a blush to Aziraphale’s cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale turns and walks away from him, comes back quickly with a soft cloth, wet with cool water.  He presses it to Crowley’s ass, traces the marks he left there.  Meandering patterns across pale skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We aren’t done yet,” he says before Crowley can open his mouth, “You look so good here, all tied up and pretty for me.”  The cloth is tossed to the side, and those rough hands slide up Crowley’s spine.  He shivers, partly from the cold air on his skin, partly from Aziraphale’s touch.  “I’m gonna take my fill of you, and you’re gonna come from it, but I ain’t gonna touch you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of Aziraphale’s hands slides into Crowley’s braid, a firm grip pulling and tilting his head back.  It’s not an elegant kiss —it’s sloppy and messy; the angle is all wrong— but Crowley drinks the kiss from Aziraphale’s lips like a dying man in the desert who just found water.  He licks into his mouth, tastes smoke and whiskey on Aziraphale’s tongue.  Crowley doesn’t try to hide the whine that escapes him when Aziraphale pulls away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale trails kisses down his spine, and Crowley can feel the heat of them despite still wearing his shirt.  There’s a long and lingering press of lips to his tailbone, a firm grip on both of his cheeks as he’s spread out wide, for Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley moans much louder than he should at Aziraphale’s first pass with his tongue, earning him a firm squeeze.  A silent command of “be still”.  Aziraphale licks over Crowley’s hole, causing Crowley’s entire body to shudder and shake.  Crowley calls out his name when Aziraphale pushes his tongue inside of him, rough facial hair scratching where the quirt already left marks.  He’s split apart at the seams; broken in two and torn asunder.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale fucks him on his tongue, ignores Crowley’s aching cock.  He can feel his release climbing despite the lack of touch.  Every thrust of Aziraphale’s tongue takes him closer, every moan that comes from the man behind him takes him higher.  All too soon he’s crying out in ecstasy, coming untouched and splattering the wooden beam in front of him, a white knuckle grip on the rope holding him bound and unable to touch.  Aziraphale fucks him through it on that damnable tongue, overstimulates him to the point that every swipe has Crowley jumping away involuntarily before he finally backs away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley watches the come trail from his cock down to the dusty barn floor, not allowing himself to feel ashamed for this.  Aziraphale’s tongue meanders its way back up to his tailbone before pressing a kiss there, a tender gesture after everything else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s hands slide up his ribcage, staccato notes on his skinny frame.  Strong arms wrap around him; hold him close as Aziraphale presses kisses to his neck.  Murmurs praise that Crowley is only now able to accept.  “You’re doing so good for me, scoundrel, now let’s get you down from here.”  Aziraphale reaches into his boot and takes out a knife.  He slices the rope that’s cutting into Crowley’s wrists, and catches him as he falls back into his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley turns in his arms as soon as he can control his limbs, presses kisses to Aziraphale’s cheeks and neck and to his lips, clingy and affectionate in the afterglow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Darlin’ if you wanna use that mouth so badly, I have much better uses for it,” Aziraphale says, twining his fingers possessively in Crowley’s hair anyway despite the flippancy of his words.  “All this time spent giving you yours, I’d be mighty obliged if I could get mine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley nods slowly, sinking to his knees and reaching for the button fly of Aziraphale’s jeans.  He frees Aziraphale’s cock from its confines as the man leans back against the support beam with a sigh.  He rests his head against Aziraphale’s thigh and waits to be told what to do next.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just beautiful,” Aziraphale says, stroking a hand reverently through Crowley’s hair, undoing the braids and tangles as he goes.  “On your knees and willing, ready to give me everything I could ever want.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anything, everything,” Crowley says a little too quickly, “You know how I feel.”  He curses his honest nature when he’s in this state, but then Aziraphale has always brought out the honest side of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know it’s the same.”  And Crowley does; he knows how Aziraphale feels.  Has heard the hushed I-love-you’s in the dark, when Azirpahale thinks he’s asleep.  Crowley nods, giving him permission.  Aziraphale smiles, giving Crowley the one thing he wants over everything else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The grip in his hair tightens and Aziraphale pulls Crowley’s face onto his cock, fucking himself on Crowley’s mouth.  Crowley watches his eyes roll back, watches them fall closed as he chases his release.  It doesn’t take long, and Aziraphale is spilling down the back of his throat on a particularly deep thrust.  Crowley gags around his cock, relishing the stretch and the pain in his jaw as he swallows every last drop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale holds him there until his cock softens in Crowley’s mouth.  He finally lets it slip free and pulls Crowley to his feet.  Shaky legs carry them both up to the loft.  Their private hideaway no one ever checks.  No one searches for them on nights like this.  Maybe they know, maybe they don’t — in the end it doesn’t matter.  There are quilts up there, and a lantern, too.  Crowley had put them there before, in his sneaking around.  They curl up around each other, stealing a few moments from the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soon enough, there will be another drive.  They’ll be on the trail again with the other men, unable to take this time.  Having to watch each other from across the campfire and pretend that there’s nothing there.  That they don’t gravitate towards each other.  But tonight, they have each other.  Crowley curls up against Aziraphale’s chest, Aziraphale plants kisses like promises into his hair.  Whispers ‘I love you’ once he thinks Crowley is asleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Crowley finally does drift off, he dreams of a little homestead.  Somewhere out further west.  With a few horses, a bunch of chickens, and two pairs of boots by the door.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
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